


How to Train Your Brainwashed Ex-Assassin

by teenagemutantninjamushroom (TeenagedMutantNinjaFangirl)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky is Toothless, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by How to Train Your Dragon, M/M, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve is Hiccough, not actually an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:28:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4811492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeenagedMutantNinjaFangirl/pseuds/teenagemutantninjamushroom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mission is to help Bucky, not punish the Winter Soldier, and he's the only person he trusts enough to be able to make that distinction.</p>
<p>In which deprogramming the Winter Soldier is a lot like taming a wild dragon, Sam and Natasha are not as dumb as Steve needs them to be and much kinder than he'll ever deserve, Steve is Hiccough and all he wants to do is help his best friend. Whoever that might be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Train Your Brainwashed Ex-Assassin

**Author's Note:**

> So this is basically what happens when you watch nothing but How to Train Your Dragon and Winter Soldier on repeat for an extended period of time. Not an actual HtTYD AU, just me noticing the parallels and structuring a Bucky recovery fic around it. Because Steve is Hiccough and Bucky is Toothless and "Forbidden Friendship" by John Powell is one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever.
> 
> It's pretty hand-wavey as far as timelines and junk. I started it pre-AoU, so whilst it doesn't actually take any of that into account, it's vague enough that it could happen after the whole Ultron thing or instead of, up to you guys I guess. The Stucky is only if you squint.
> 
> Blanket Disclaimer: If you recognize it I don't own it, un-beta'd so feel free to point out any glaring errors, and apologies for Australian spelling.

Steve has been given a mission. Though with SHEILD essentially disbanded “mission” is a relative term. It’s not strictly official, however necessary, nor is it sanctioned by any part of the government. Methodically working their way across the map, searching for HYDRA and razing the buildings to the ground. It’s strangely therapeutic, though not in a way that Sam strictly approves of.

Steve believes in the mission, with an almost frightening intensity. But for every base and outpost they discover and burn, two more safe-houses will appear. Or research facilities, or secret labs, or weapons caches. HYDRA take their “cut off one head” mandate seriously. It’s like looking at a map dotted with the crosses that keep multiplying, no matter how many they turn to ash, yet never finding what he’s actually searching for.

So yes, while he believes in his team’s mission (if you can call two people working basically alone without any backup a team) he’s channelling his inner Nick Fury and given himself a mission of his own.

Taking a leaf out of Fury’s book (the one he imagines to be hidden in Fury’s desk, detailing how to be the perfect spy, for him to physically throw at people like Steve when they question his orders) he’s the only one who knows about it. It has nothing to do with agreeing with the Ex-Director’s methods and everything to do with his own personal gain, using Fury’s tricks against him is just an added bonus.

Just because Steve refused to tell him, does not mean that Sam isn’t aware of Steve’s hidden agenda. Stupid, Sam is _not_. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Sam (or even Natasha whenever she pops up randomly to help before disappearing again) because he does. He trusts Sam with his life. But it isn’t his life he is gambling here; it’s Bucky’s. Past experience had taught him he can’t even trust _himself_ with something so precious.

Which is why he’s alone in the sub-basement level of their latest target, armed only with his shield and a handgun Natasha had given him as a strangely thoughtful (if not a little alarming) birthday present, whilst Sam remained on the ground floor keeping the building secure.

The building is old (this is coming from Steve who – according to Stark at least – couldn’t stop counting birthdays just because he was asleep for most of them, and technically qualified for a senior’s discount on the subway) located on a busy D.C. street corner, the bank is all columns and domed roofs. The kind of building that even though it had closed – from the public at least – remained mostly untouched due to its historic value.

For HYDRA however, the bank was open for business.

Their intel had suggested only a skeleton crew remained behind, most of the valuable intel and equipment having been removed to a more secure location not hours after the Insight Helicarriers fell. So far that had been the case, only one guard patrolling the perimeter (disguised as a homeless man in a back alley with three semi-automatic weapons hidden in his shopping cart) whom Steve had taken care of whilst Sam used one of their Stark-provided gadgets to short out any surveillance.

If what their briefing had told them was true, there should only be one more guard and a lab tech below packing away the last of the HYDRA files. In all honesty any low-level field agent could have handled this op, three enemy combatants, few low-value pieces of intel, a milk run.

But Steve isn’t here for whatever files HYDRA hadn’t deemed important enough to hide right away, that was for damn sure.

“How’s it looking down there Cap?” Sam’s voice is soft and calm over their comms.

“So far so good,” he’s whispering for obvious reasons but keeps his tone as light as Sam’s.

“You just let me know if you need me to bust down there and save your ass.”

“I don’t like my chances of you reaching me quick enough,” they are probably talking too much for being in the middle of a mission, but the banter between them had been easy from the beginning. “Especially since you’ll be on foot.”

Sam is smart and snarky and not at all deterred by Steve’s pseudo celebrity status. It was grounding to be working with someone who saw him as a soldier before superhero, Captain Rogers before Captain America.

“Man, you’re lucky you’re so pretty,” he chuckles. “Because I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you, you can be a real ass sometimes.”

Steve smiles but keeps his laughter to himself, approaching the end of the dark corridor. It bent to the right, light spilling round the corner. Sliding against the wall Steve risks a peak, ducking his head to snatch a glance at the room beyond and quickly pulling it back.

His hearing and eyesight are beyond perfect. There are several machines whirring, the sound of one pair of feet slowly pacing (combat boots, measured strides), a keyboard clacking, pausing every few seconds to be replaced by the scratching of a pen on paper, and a rustling sound he can’t quite identify, like a person moving in their seat, maybe whoever is on the computer shifting restlessly.

He’s only managed to catch a glimpse of the room, an old vault with two sets of bars, dull metal glinting everywhere, potentially old safety deposit boxes or whatever equipment HYDRA had built. He counts to ten, waiting until the person pacing, most likely the armed guard, is walking away from the entrance and thus Steve.

Moving silently he sprints to the first set of bars, shield at the ready, firing two shots into the HYDRA agent’s back before spinning quickly to do the same to the lab tech, who hasn’t even fully looked up from her screen. The icers have both of them collapsing to the ground, unconscious. They are supposed to call in a team for pick up and transport of any prisoners but Steve and Sam had agreed that they were going to hold off until they’d cleared the entire building. He doesn’t need a team of unfamiliar agents breathing down his neck whilst he searches for the information he really came to-

“Bucky?”

His eyes bug out of his head slightly when they land on his best friend.

He is strapped to a chair, a combination of metal braces that look attached to the frame and leather ties that appeared to have been added as an extra precaution. Bucky isn’t moving, not that he could much with the sheer number of restraints they used. There is something that looks horribly like a muzzle tied around his face, Steve can just make out a chunk of rubber wedged between Bucky’s teeth, whatever they clamped over the top meant to keep him from spitting it out.

His orders when it came to Bucky are clear: They are to bring the fugitive known as the Winter Soldier in to SHIELD, for the processing and rehabilitation of American POW Sgt James Barnes. That is what Director Coulson had told him. That they had a team of special head shrinks and telepaths ready to make sure there aren’t any dangerous triggers left in his brain before they begin helping him become Bucky again.

And it’s not that he doesn’t trust the new SHIELD, it’s just… well he doesn’t actually trust SHIELD. He likes Phil well enough, the brief time they’d known each other, before he thought Phil had been killed by a fratricidal alien god, and no one had thought to correct him on the matter. He’s just so sick of the lies and the misdirection covert agencies operate under. And sure the army hadn’t been much better, especially when they were working in close conjunction with the SSR. But at least in the old days (and doesn’t Steve feel like the Grandpa Natasha teases him for being when he thinks that) when the SSR were lying to you they did it to your face.

So he really doesn’t want the number of people to know Bucky’s here to reach beyond this room. And like he’d said before, he didn’t even trust himself to ever really keep Bucky safe, he’d already failed one time too many.

But his mission is to help Bucky, not punish the Winter Soldier, and he can at least trust himself enough to be able to make that distinction.

Dropping his shield and the gun he slowly steps closer, eyes not leaving Bucky’s as they track his movements. His gaze is wary, and Steve is unable detect any recognition nor can he see any confusion. He has no idea if Bucky even knows who he is or if they’d already managed to… but he couldn’t think that.

He nearly jumps at the sound of Sam’s voice asking for an update, brushing him off with something vague about the two agents, “I’ll let you know when they’ve been taken care of.”

Bucky flinches as he reaches towards him, and Steve has to pause, bile rising in his throat at the resigned look on his best friend’s face. He can see signs of exertion, his skin red from chafing where he was tied down, small beads of sweat drying on his forehead. But the marks look old, he has no idea if whatever bastardized version of the serum Zola had managed to make has a similar rate of healing as his own, but even if it did heal as fast it means that Bucky had stopped fighting some time ago.

More alarmingly there are several stab wounds and what looks like a bullet hole visible on his bare torso, a small amount of blood oozing from the gunshot. The cuts haven’t healed but they don’t appear to be bleeding as much anymore.

Bucky’s eyes have shut, the muscles in his face tightening like he is preparing for pain.

Telegraphing everything he is going to do as much as possible Steve pulls the leather away first, mind flashing to another time, other straps holding Bucky in place. Unable to find any sort of release mechanism he gives the metal cuffing Bucky’s legs and arms the same treatment, prying it away from the chair until all that’s left is the muzzle holding his bite guard in place.

Bucky still hasn’t moved since the initial flinch, laying frozen in the chair, his breathing steady and his stare unwavering, right up until Steve reaches towards his face. One minute he’s fighting the stinging in his eyes at the thought that Bucky had been _muzzled_ like some sort of _animal_ , the next all of the breath has been knocked out of him.

He’s on the floor, pressed against the uneven metal surface of the old deposit boxes with a hand wrapped tightly around his throat. Bucky is crouching over him, hand squeezing Steve’s neck enough to hold him in place and make him fight to breathe a little, but not tight enough to actually choke him. It’s enough for Steve not to make a move to fight him off.

What’s surprising is that it isn’t the cold metal he has almost come to expect, rather the warm skin of his right hand. Bucky’s crouched on his bare feet, looming over Steve, his metal arm hanging by his side. Without breaking eye contact he reaches for the muzzle holding the bite-guard in place.

There is something wrong with the metal arm. Steve isn’t even a little bit versed in mechanics, but he can hear an unhealthy amount of grinding when it moves, and the fingers are working clumsily, not so much unbuckling the muzzle as inelegantly ripping it from his face, the rubber falling to the floor along with it.

Bucky shifts closer, until they are practically nose-to-nose, eyes never wavering, breathing short and uneven. Steve is doing his best to remain as still and non-threatening as possible, ignoring the way the fingers around his neck tighten almost compulsively, small twitches in the muscle he’s not entirely sure Bucky knows he’s doing.

His eyes look over the skin on Bucky’s jaw, also rubbed red, a bruise blooming on his cheek and his lip bleeding slightly from a cut. He’s practically growling at him, baring his teeth slightly as he hovers, eyes hostile and roaming all over Steve’s face. But he can see the fear, the desperation to understand, the recognition, hidden underneath the aggression.

Steve is opening his mouth, to say what, he has no clue but he needs to say something. But before he can Bucky twitches and then bolts, pushing Steve back with enough force to crack his head against the wall, hard. Dizziness and nausea overwhelm him at the blow and his vision goes a little dark around the edges.

By the time the fog has cleared enough for him to sit up and look around Bucky is already long gone.

*

The cafe they're sitting in is bright and open. Shafts of sunlight filtering in through the high windows, set above the large doors that slide away to open the small space up to the street. The wait staff are friendly, the menu simple and the furniture an eclectic collection of well worn, mismatched chairs and tables. The specials board propped up outside boasts DC’s best all day breakfast.

The three of them are sitting in a back corner, around a table that was piled with empty plates not ten minutes ago. Now it is just their coffees in large ceramic mugs.

Natasha is folded into a wing-backed arm chair, curled into the plum coloured fabric with her ankles crossed as she stares at Steve over the rim of her coffee. Steve has his gaze fixed on the barista, watching the way her hands expertly work the machine in practiced, dance-like motions, steadfastly refusing to meet the red-head's eye.

They'd chatted about their latest round of missions throughout the meal, Natasha describing her trip to Australia to look into reports of Hydra bases hidden in the mountains near Sydney. Steve had stayed mostly quiet as Sam had spoken, smiling where necessary and commenting enough to avoid suspicion.

At least that is what he thought up until the waiter had cleared their table. With fresh cups of coffee in front of them, Natasha had locked her eyes on him and seemed determined to stare until he snapped. Which is why nobody has said anything for exactly fourteen minutes.

Sam is pretending to concentrate on something on his phone, pausing every now and then for his eyes to flick between the pair of them before rolling skyward in exasperation.

"You found him in the vault."

It isn't a question, spoken softly enough that no one else in the bustling cafe would be able to pick up on it. His eyes met hers across the table, eyebrows pinching in an attempt at feigning confusion.

It’s not convincing enough if the way her own eyebrow arches in response is anything to go by.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he works at keeping his face neutral, his voice even. Lying has never been one of his strong suits, but they say practice makes perfect.

"Sam said you went off comms for eleven minutes, and when he found you down stairs you were barely conscious and had a bump on your head the size of Nebraska. We both know there is only one person you'd let inside you guard like that and then feel the need to lie about it after.”

Steve throws an accusing glare in Sam’s direction, who doesn’t even look up from his phone, arranging his face in such a way that he doesn’t even have to speak out loud for Steve to hear him say, “man, I just told the lady what happened, you’re the idiot that thought we wouldn’t figure it out.”

There’s a small part of him that wants to stick his tongue out at Sam like a petulant child, but in the end he settles for scowling at him like a sullen teenager.

“Someone needs to teach you how to use concealer,” Natasha smirks, leaning far forward enough to flick the side of his head where his bruise has faded to a pale yellow green. “It must have been quite the hit if I can still see it.”

The flick is only gentle, meant to be teasing instead of causing him real pain. But she was right, it had been quite the hit. Usually it only took a few hours for most bruises to fade completely from his skin, it has only been about thirteen and the skin is still tender. He probably should have had a medic check it out.

There’s another short silence, where Natasha stares at him like she knows all of his secrets and Steve squirms in his seat like a misbehaving kid in front of the principal. He can hear Sam muttering under his breath, something about superheroes being drama queens.

He knows he should have told them about Bucky, should have said something when Sam first came running into the vault with his guns out, worried that Steve was no longer answering (his comm had been knocked out of his ear when Bucky pinned him to the wall). Because he trusts the pair of them, more than anyone he knows in the modern world.

Out of everyone they are the ones that stood by his side; that followed him into battle when he said he wanted to destroy SHIELD to stop Hydra, stepping into a war they had no involvement with in Sam’s case and dismantling the organisation that had given Natasha her second chance. They were the closest thing to a family he has, and that’s why he didn’t tell them.

Because as much as he cares for them, they also care about him, and he knows that no matter what he says, they will always put his safety and wellbeing first, meaning that if it came to a choice between him and Bucky they would both try to save him. They don’t get that there’s very little of him that’s worth saving without Bucky.

“So what’s our next move?” Natasha is the one brave enough to break the silence, something in her expression making Steve feel (like always) that she knows exactly what is going on in his head.

It’s a loaded question. To the casual outsider it sounds like Natasha is asking where they are planning to hit next, what their intel on Hydra tells them is a good target. But Steve knows better. Natasha is actually asking where they’re going to go, but at the same time she’s probing to see if Steve will actually clue them in on his little side project.

Sensing that Steve isn’t going to say anything on the matter anytime soon, Sam starts talking about heading out of the city, maybe working their way north. They’d returned to DC when they had learnt of the Bank doubling as a Hydra post, as one of the closest to the Triskellion Steve had known that it would be where they would have activated Bucky when the time came to assassinate Fury.

So Sam talks and Natasha listens, occasionally glancing at Steve as Sam mentions probably heading back to where they were last.

And Steve just wants the conversation to be over. Sam had forced him to rest overnight and since Steve hadn’t told him about Bucky he had no excuse to go out and start scouring the streets. When he’d woken this morning it was to find Natasha waiting in the kitchen, inviting them out to brunch.

So he nods and smiles and agrees with whatever Sam is saying, hoping that when they return to Sam’s house he can use the excuse of a run to sneak out and see if he can pick up Bucky’s trail from the bank vault. He’s not able to keep the impatient look off of his face entirely, he knows he’s not, so when Natasha calls him up on it he snaps at her.

“I just want to get out there and find him,” he growls, and then realising his mistake hastily adds. “Them. I just want to find them and bring them down.”

The “screw what SHIELD wants,” isn’t spoken out loud but he knows she can hear it anyway.

The shift in her expression is subtle, Natasha as always in perfect control of every muscle in her body, but Steve can still read it (and he knows it’s only because she’s allowing him to). She’s equal parts disappointed and unimpressed, resigned to the fact that he’s still attempting to lie to her. But he can also see a twinkle of approval, something small and barely there, and he’s not entirely sure he isn’t imagining it.

Before he can think to question what about him blatantly lying to her she finds worthy of her approval, it’s gone. Replaced by something harder, almost reluctant. And he knows that he isn’t going to like what she’s about to say.

“You need to be careful.”

It’s only by the grace of God that she keeps going before he has the chance to scoff and roll his eyes.

“I’m serious Steve,” and he can hear it, a level of emotion to her voice that she doesn’t let show just for the hell of it. “I know what you’re trying to do, and I even get why you think it’s a good idea to lie about it.”

She raises her eyebrows pointedly at him, a hint of a smirk curling at the edge of her mouth, before it flattens into a hard line.

“His programming is falling apart.”

It takes everything Steve has not to thump his fist onto the table to yell and rage that he’s a _human being_ he’s not a machine. Again, she continues before he has the chance.

“He’s confused and his mind is fractured,” Steve can’t tell if it’s better or worse that she’s not using his name. “What they did to him… it’s breaking down and he will be struggling to make sense of anything he’s seeing, or remembering. He won’t be able to distinguish between what’s real and what’s not.”

Steve doesn’t have to ask to know how she knew that. Even if he did, he isn’t entirely sure he wants to hear her reply.

“You know he will most likely kill you before he’s even fully aware you’re there,” she straightens, fixing him with an unwavering gaze.

“When I was brought in,” she pauses, almost like she’s rolling the words around in her mouth to pick the ones that are most palatable. “I can’t tell you how many people I hurt. Mostly because I don’t know. The kinds of things they would have given to him that are trying to work through his system… When I was _detoxing_ , every time somebody came near me I viewed it as an attack, and I had been trained to respond to attacks in a very specific way.”

But Bucky didn’t, Steve frowned thinking back to the night before. Bucky had had him pinned, a hand around his throat. Steve wouldn’t have fought him, he could have easily broken his neck, or stabbed him, or just kept on smashing his head against the wall until he was dead. But he _didn’t_.

“You have to understand Steve, even if he’s… even if Barnes is still in there, he’s very, _very_ dangerous. And he needs help that you might not be able to give him.”

And Steve knows, he knows that it’s dangerous and that she’s worried about him. He knows that she is trying to prepare him for when he does find Bucky and is met with the Winter Soldier. But Steve doesn’t care, he doesn’t care if Bucky really is… if Bucky’s gone it doesn’t matter. Whoever he is now, he deserves help after what’s been done to him.

*

They hadn’t even give him the opportunity to make any excuses, standing almost in sync after they were through with their coffee.

“We’ll see you later man,” Sam had clapped him on the shoulder, smile full of understanding.

He climbed to his feet, eyes darting between the pair of them. Natasha’s face was unreadable when she stepped forward to kiss him gently on the cheek, pausing with her hands on his shoulders to say, “I’d tell you not to do anything stupid but we both know I’m smart enough not to waste my breath.”

“I’m not telling you to stop trying to find him,” her smile is small but still warm, full of understanding “I’m just trying to prepare you for when you do. You know as well as I do that he was not meant to survive Insight any more than we were. What use do Hydra have for an assassin when they can kill millions of people in seconds?”

He knew she was right, the Winter Soldier was supposed to be a ghost, a whisper that people weren’t sure whether to believe in or not. Ghosts didn’t walk down the centre of busy city streets blowing up SUVs.

He’d stood in the café for several minutes, watching the pair of them walk down the street. Part of him despised himself for making them think that he didn’t trust them. No matter what he did it would never be enough to deserve the kindness and trust they were giving him.

Now however he was back at the vault, carefully skirting around the SHIELD agents keeping the place on lockdown whilst they recover whatever they can. He smiles at them politely, asking questions about what they’ve found so far, like he wants the information to help him in his quest.

In reality he’s examining the room, looking for clues as to where Bucky could have gone. He’s lucky, spotting a tiny blood trail, small enough to have escaped the agents’ notice, but fresh enough that he can follow it easily. He’s got an earpiece in, linked directly to the cell phone Tony had given him and therefore Jarvis. It hadn’t taken as much convincing as he had thought to get the AI to help him, even less to get him to do so without telling Tony or anybody else.

“The privacy protocols put in place by Master Stark that apply to him apply to all other charges in my care as well,” the prim British voice had informed him. “As an Avenger and thus a member of Mr Stark’s closest circle you too have the right to ask that I not share what it is you require me to do.”

Steve had opened his mouth to thank the AI when Jarvis interrupted him.

“However, I must warn you that I am coded to ignore such privacy protocols should your safety or the safety of those around you be compromised.”

“I don’t suppose you would take my word for it if I ever tell you when I’m not actually in danger.”

“There are algorithms in place that will help me to determine whether your life is at risk,” Jarvis explained. “And I feel it prudent to inform you that these algorithms were put in place by someone who is not prone to insisting they are fine when 72% of their person is on fire as Mr Stark has done in the past.”

But the point was that Jarvis was helping him now, using the direction of the blood trail to determine where Bucky might have gone. And if the AI told him that it would take time to search through the various Police Databases and CCTV footage he could access then Steve just has to be patient.

And Steve _can_ be patient. For Bucky… well he would gladly be frozen for another seventy years if it was what it took to make Bucky safe again.

*

He’s just leaving a meeting with some political bigwig who wanted a chance to grill Steve for information on SHIELD and Fury, and seemed strangely upset that “Captain America” didn’t have more loyalty to the Republican government. Pepper told him that he didn’t have any responsibility to attend these meetings personally and that if they were pestering him he could refer them to the fleet of Stark Industry lawyers.

But Steve needed something to stop him from compulsively checking with Jarvis if there was any news and nothing was a better distraction than proving politician’s narrow-minded assumptions about him wrong.

Jogging down the endless flights of stairs he pulls his phone out of his pocket to text Sam asking if he wants him to bring anything home for dinner when the screen lights up with a notification from Jarvis. It’s nothing but an address, and it stops him dead in his tracks, staring at the innocuous line of text for several minutes before he fully comprehends what it is.

_Jarvis found him_.

Steve is ready for this, he’s been preparing for the last four days for the moment when Jarvis managed to track down even a whisper of a lead. He’d put together a duffel bag with several changes of clothes, warm socks, underwear, bottled water, food, first aid supplies, a thermal blanket, along with a prepaid cell phone that Jarvis assured him could not be traced.

_And it was sitting at the foot of the bed in Sam’s guest bedroom._

Steve has _nothing_ with him. His bike is parked about a ten minute walk away (less than two minutes if he runs) and he’s only got his wallet and his phone.

The meeting was only supposed to be an hour at most, and Steve was planning on spending the rest of the day on Sam’s couch, reading some files on the latest Hydra bases and watching _Mythbusters_ on Netflix.

But then one hour had turned into two which turned into three, and all of a sudden it’s nearly the end of the day and Steve is standing frozen like a statue on the crowded stairs staring at his phone like he’s never seen one before.

Briefly he considers going to Sam’s place and picking up the emergency bag he made for Bucky. But by the time he does that Bucky could be long gone. He settles for sprinting to where he parked, stopping at the first place that sells food and buying a couple of pre-made sandwiches and a large bottle of water, before kick-starting his bike and breaking several traffic laws on his way to the address Jarvis sent him.

It’s a warehouse, fairly small and clearly abandoned. The paint is faded and peeling, exposing large strips of corrugated iron underneath that was rusted and riddled with tiny holes. There a several windows across the front, a few feet above the large roller doors and coated in a thick layer of grime. The sun is hanging low in the sky, the automatic streetlights not on just yet, and the warehouse is dark inside.

There’s a sign above the doors but below the windows, what was probably once the name of whatever business was there, but has peeled and faded to a point that he could only make out one or two letters.

There’s a smaller door to the side of the large roller doors and Steve slips through it and into the warehouse. Inside the space is large and open with one side still housing several dilapidated pieces of machinery. He has no clue what they used to make here, the rusty hunks of metal covered in dust and grime giving nothing away.

The belt on the old conveyer that runs the length of the room is broken in several places, large chunks of rubber torn off and littering the floor. There is dust and grit covering the concrete, along with droppings from whatever animals had been seeking shelter. Steve can make out a few small skeletons of what might have been rats a few feet in front of him.

At the far end of the warehouse there’s a loft, jutting out nearly half the length of the building. The windows running along the front are even grimier than the ones on the street, coated in a thick grey that makes it almost impossible to make out the room beyond.

He climbs the stairs slowly, partially because he weights over 200 pounds and he’s not entirely sure they can withstand him, and partially because he’s keeping quiet. He isn’t actively trying to sneak up on Bucky (he doubts he’d be able to even if he wanted) but he doesn’t want to startle him either. If he started thundering up the stairs he could not only fall (and most likely get skewered by some of the rusty metal railing) but the approach might seem aggressive enough that Bucky would flee before Steve even had the chance to catch a glimpse of him.

He’s certain that Bucky – if he’s even here still – is aware of his presence, would have been before Steve had even entered the building. He’s read through the file that Natasha gave him. All 52 pages that not only described just how thoroughly and extensively they’d tortured his best friend (Sam found him hunched over the toilet in the bathroom violently heaving the contents of his stomach into the porcelain after) but also detailed the very extensive training he’d undertaken.

They could be standing in the middle of a crowded baseball stadium and Steve thinks that Bucky would be aware of him if he so much as glanced in his general direction. It’s like Natasha, who would generally look up and over to him before he’d even started walking towards her, all he’d have to do was _think_ of something he wanted to say to the red head and she’d be watching him expectantly.

When he reaches the door at the top of the stairs he pauses. It’s ajar, and two of the panes of glass are broken, but he can’t see or hear anything on the other side. He’s ready for a fight, if that’s how it plays out. There’s nothing he wants less than to hurt Bucky, but he’s prepared for if the Winter Soldier attacks first and asks questions later.

His phone is in the inside pocket of his jacket, turned off. He knows that Sam will probably call him soon when he’s finished at the VA for the day, but he’s hoping he’ll assume that Steve’s meeting ran late and won’t worry too much if Steve doesn’t answer the first few times.

The phone was a gift from Tony (by way of Natasha) and was supposedly impenetrable to even the NSA’s strongest satellites and computers. He’s not an idiot though, just because the government can’t track his phone doesn’t mean that Tony can’t. Even if the billionaire doesn’t have something in there so he could determine Steve’s location whenever the mood struck, he knows for a fact that Natasha would have slipped something in as well.

Not because she wanted to invade his privacy by listening to his calls, reading his texts and emails, or even viewing the photo’s he took, but because they had just outed a secret Nazi organisation who would be out for blood. It was just one of the few ways she knows how to show that she cares about someone.

He trusted Natasha, and this way he knew that if he didn’t come home tonight at least they’d be able to find him eventually.

The Shield is back at Sam’s place, all he’s carrying is the plastic bag from the convenience store that has two sandwiches and a bottle of water in it. Not really effective weapons, but there’s still a small part of him that is praying Bucky won’t attack him. He knows it’s foolish, he’s got anecdotal proof that Bucky has absolutely no compunctions about beating the shit out of him in his current mental state.

There’s even still the fading scars of the bullet wounds to remind him that Bucky hasn’t got any compunctions about shooting him either. God he really hopes Bucky doesn’t shoot him.

Sucking in one last breath he pushes gently on the door.

The space is too large for just an office that management would have used when the warehouse/factory was operational, but if it had any other purpose there’s nothing left to suggest what it was. The ceiling is high, made up of exposed rafters, with the wall that sections the loft off from the rest of the factory not reaching the entire way up. There’s a fire exit in the back corner and several more windows to the outside. The part of Steve’s brain that was effected by the serum registered each of the exits almost immediately.

The space is mostly empty and open, several old crates and boxes stacked to one side with what looks like a couple of tins of paint, but Steve isn’t paying too much attention to anything but the man crouching in the far corner.

Bucky is dressed in civilian clothes. Jeans, a flannel shirt, and a jacket, all of them looking dirty and well worn. His hair is still long, hanging lank and oily around his face. The stubble he’d had when Steve found him in the Hydra bank vault has grown into a small beard, the dark hair accentuating the small cleft in his chin and the sharp line of his jaw, but also the sunken shadows beneath his eyes and the sallow tinge to his skin.

Even in the small amount of time he’s been standing there he can already see how much _smaller_ Bucky is. The clothes he’s wearing are hanging off of him loosely, the bones in his face are far too prominent for Steve’s liking.

The training he would have had, similar to Natasha’s in that he could not only blend in in any environment but completely become whomever he needed, should have made him capable of looking after himself. But Steve read through what they could find of his last mission briefings, the skills and… _programming_ (he can feel bile rising in his throat for even thinking the word, Bucky is a _human_ , he’s not a _machine)_ that had been implemented were little more than that of a weapon, one they could point and shoot.

What’s frustrating is that the he doesn’t actually know what it means, the fact that Bucky has lost so much weight, that he’s clearly not eating enough. It could be that he doesn’t remember, that he’s still trapped in that weapon mindset and therefore doesn’t possess the skills to acquire food or the knowledge that he needs to. But it could also be that he does remember but is only eating the bare amount required for him to remain “functional”. He can’t decide which option is worse, and both of them make him ache to hunt down every person that has ever laid a finger on his best friend and give them a taste of their own medicine.

It’s several minutes of both of them standing at opposite ends of the room staring at the other before Steve finally brings himself to move. Bucky hasn’t so much as shifted the entire time he’s been there, crouched low and defensively, one leg extended almost behind him so that he can run at a moment’s notice. His right arm is the one extended in front of him for balance. The left arm, the metal arm, is hanging limply by his side fingers barely grazing the floor.

Bucky continues to stare at him, his eyes the only thing that he moves. Steve watches them dart all over him, lingering in places that he could be hiding a weapon, flicking to the plastic bag in his hand and frequently returning to his face.

“Hey,” he smiles, he bites back on the urge to use Bucky’s name. His only goal right now is to give him the food and water, establish that he just wants to help.

He doesn’t want to risk Bucky freaking out and rabbiting by pressuring him to remember. He wasn’t lying when he told Natasha that it didn’t matter if he was never James Barnes again, after all that has been done to him he deserves the chance to _choose_.

Slowly, so slowly he’s barely moving at all, he steps forward. He makes it all of about three feet before every single muscle in Bucky’s body tenses, the metal of his hand scraping slightly against the floor as his shoulders hitch slightly. Stopping he tries to fix his face into the most open and reassuring expression he can muster.

“It’s ok, I’m not going to hurt you,” his voice is soft and non-threatening, the kind of tone you use when talking to a scared animal. “I brought you some food and water.”

He drops down onto his butt, folding his legs underneath him like a pretzel. It’s an undignified sort of movement, especially with how slowly he’s trying to execute it. But it’s the most vulnerable way he can think to sit, legs bent awkwardly, no way to stop himself from being pushed backwards or to get up in a hurry, knees close enough to his body to restrict how quickly he could draw any weapons he might have stashed inside his jacket.

There’s barely any response from Bucky, his eyes following Steve to the ground. They muscles surrounding them might tighten minutely, his eyebrows lowering slightly into a confused frown, but it’s small enough that he’s not entirely sure he’s not imagining it.

Still moving slower than molasses he places the bag in front of him. He’s not stupid enough to reach a hand inside and momentarily obscure it, like whatever he could be retrieving is potentially a weapon. Instead he sits it down, pinching the bottom between his fingers and upending it, carefully spilling its contents on the floor.

Luckily the sandwiches fall on either side of the water bottle, preventing it from rolling away and Steve having to reach out and grab it. He’s very conscious that any sudden movement may be construed as an attack and Bucky’s far enough away that he would consider fleeing before fighting back, especially if his metal arm is no longer working, which Steve is beginning to suspect.

In the brief moment his attention was focusing on revealing the food in front of him Bucky has moved, silently creeping forward so that he’s less than eight feet away from him. Steve flinches slightly, surprised by not only how quick Bucky had been but also how utterly silent.

It reminds him briefly of a video Clint had shown him months ago about a ninja cat and Steve has to fight down a bubble of hysterical laughter.

This time Bucky doesn’t wait for him to look away before moving, slowly creeping forwards, his eyes never leaving Steve’s until he’s almost within arm’s reach, close enough that he could lean forward and touch him. It’s almost too strong an urge to resist, but he does, hands flat on his knees.

The metal arm isn’t completely broken, but it is severely damaged. He remembers the vault, the clumsy way he’d pulled the muzzle from his face. It’s still making horrible grinding sounds when it moves, the fingers barely shifting at all and not even close to resembling the fine motor control he had when they’d fought on the streets of DC.

He watches as Bucky comes to a stop, crouched low enough that they are both at eye-level but still coiled tight enough to spring away at a second’s notice. Steve’s barely breathing, too terrified to even blink. He can hear his pulse thudding in his ears, worried that any minute Bucky’s going to disappear and he’s never going to be able to find him again.

After what feels like an eternity Bucky reaches forward, eyes never leaving Steve’s. When he has the first sandwich in his hand he draws back slightly, putting another foot of distance between them so suddenly Steve can’t help but startle.

He watches silently as Bucky pulls apart the plastic wrap covering the sandwich, eyes never straying from Steve for more than a second. The metal arm is back to hanging by his side, braced against the floor so he can balance the sandwich on his knee as he uses his flesh and blood hand to pull it apart, even going so far as to bring it close enough to his face that he can cautiously smell it.

Steve tried to smile as encouragingly as he can, using nothing but his eyes to reassure Bucky that he’s not a threat, he just wants to help and that he hasn’t put any sort of poison or sedative in his food. He almost cant bite back the sigh of relief when Bucky takes a tentative bight, and it’s even harder not to laugh at the confused expression on his face as he chews.

Of course, then he remembers just why he would be confused, that his file said he was mostly fed intravenously or with nutrient pastes. It’s probably the first thing his eaten in Steve doesn’t know how long that tastes good. And a small part of him is _glad_ that cutting off one Hydra head leads to getting two more, more people need to suffer for what Bucky’s been through.

He tries to keep the thoughts from his face, allowing the smile to curl at the edges of his lips when after chewing the first bite for almost an entire minute before swallowing, Bucky apparently decides that it’s not poisoned (or that if it is he doesn’t care) and promptly devours the remaining half in three seconds flat.

He doesn’t dart back after moving forward to claim the second sandwich, staying close enough that Steve is once again fighting the urge to reach out and touch him. He doesn’t eat the second sandwich quite as fast, but only just. Steve isn’t even sure what was on them, some sort of cold cut and salad, he’d just picked the biggest looking ones they had.

“I’m sorry,” he smiles apologetically. “I wish I’d brought more. It was all I could grab on my way here.”

Bucky freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth and his eyes suddenly riveted on Steve. He’s not entirely sure what to do, he doesn’t know what he said that would make him stop. For a minute he panics, worried that at any moment he’s going to drop the food and run. That he fucked the whole thing up by opening his stupid mouth.

He doesn’t know what to do. Bucky’s just crouched there, staring at him, frown creasing his forehead as the intensity of his gaze increases. He can’t help the small flinch when Bucky finally moves, certain that he’s about to get hit or shoved over. That by the time he sits back up again Bucky will be long gone.

Instead Bucky’s holding the half a sandwich out in front of him, almost like he wants Steve to take it.

“That’s ok,” he tries to refuse, shaking his head slightly but not moving to push the food back towards him. “I got it for you, I don’t need any.”

Bucky just thrusts it even closer to him, frown deepening into a scowl as he shakes it slightly, silently arguing.

Steve doesn’t know what to do but take it, quietly saying thank you as he gently accepts it, careful not to move too quickly.

He glances back up at Bucky’s face, holding the sandwich in both of his hands. Bucky’s just frowning at him still, eyes on the sandwich in Steve’s grip. After a moment where neither of them move Bucky’s scowl jumps up to Steve’s face, chin jutting forward slightly in what is unmistakably him demanding Steve eat.

The half a sandwich is mangled. There are indentations in the bread from where Bucky had gripped it so tightly, and a bite is missing from the middle. Some of the filling has fallen out and the rest is barely hanging on. But Bucky’s looking at him like everything depends on Steve eating it so he takes a small bite.

Bucky just watches him as he slowly eats it, and there’s something so intense about his gaze that almost makes Steve feel self-conscious. It’s not until he’s licking the small trace of aioli that had spilled onto his thumb away that he sees the change.

Tension flows out of the rigid muscles in Bucky’s shoulders, and he almost slumps forward. It takes Steve a second to parse the look on his face, the way he’s softened around the eyes and the corners of his lips have almost curled upwards, almost triumphant. There’s still a determined set to his eyebrows and as he watches Bucky nods slightly, just the once, like he’s confirmed something for himself.

And like that Steve remembers, the way Bucky would constantly worry about Steve not eating enough. It had started when they were in school, Bucky always swapping half of his slightly bigger lunch for half of Steve’s and then claiming it was because he liked Sarah’s cooking better.

One of the few times they’d gone to Coney Island was after Bucky had gotten a bonus for his work at the docks. Steve wouldn’t let Bucky buy him anything, insisting that he could afford his own tickets and that Bucky should save his money. Bucky had bought himself a toffee apple after Steve had lied about not wanting one and then proceeded to eat exactly two bites of it before claiming he was feeling a bit ill from riding the Cyclone (even though Steve was the one who had emptied his stomach into a bin directly after) and offering it to Steve to finish.

There’s a burning behind his eyes. Sitting there on the ground of an abandoned warehouse, across from what used to be his best friend who had been tortured and brainwashed to the point that he didn’t even recognise his own reflection let alone Steve, that small act was enough to bring him to tears.

For the first time since he’d pulled off the Winter Soldier’s mask and found Bucky underneath, Steve allows himself to feel the hope that he’d steadfastly ignored. His best friend was still in there.

Tentatively he smiles at Bucky, small and still guarded, but he’s never been good at hiding things, especially from Bucky. He knows there’s too much showing on his face, he’s hard pressed to think of a time when he wasn’t worried about it. Luckily, Bucky had never seemed to have noticed, not in all the years they spent together growing up. He doubts that it matters right now anyway, Bucky’s hardly in a place where he’ll care that Steve’s been in love with him for as long as he can remember (and with his serum-enhanced mind, he can remember a lot more than most people).

They stare at each other for a few minutes, Bucky frowning in confusion as Steve just keeps smiling at him, fighting the urge to giggle to himself at his best friends expression. There’s something so innocent about the confusion, and Steve can’t help but be reminded of a puppy, the way his head’s cocked to the side slightly.

Soon however his attention is drawn to the dark stain on his shoulder, right below his collar bone, the edges of which are dry but the centre is still damp. There is a sliver of dirtied white poking out of the collar of Bucky’s t-shirt, what was once a clean bandage but has not been changed in a while.

It can’t be the same bullet wound that was there when they met in the bank vault, that had already been well on the way to healing and if the bastardized version of the serum Bucky had was anything like what Steve was injected with then there would only be a faintly raised pink scar that would no doubt fade over time. That meant that it was new, new enough (or deep enough) that it was still bleeding and able to soak through whatever bandages Bucky had applied and both of his shirts.

He’s leaning forwards before even consciously aware of the movement, eyes zeroing in on that small stain. Bucky’s entire posture changes, stiffening and drawing back slightly as his expression closes off almost instantly.

“You should let me look at that,” he keeps his voice quiet but firm, reaching forward.

Bucky’s on the other side of the room in a crouch before Steve can even blink. He’s pulled a knife from _somewhere_ and is holding it out in front of him, fist gripped tightly around the hilt as he bears his teeth, almost growling.

Steve straightens, still sitting cross-legged on the floor, putting both of his hands up in front of him and dropping his shoulders slightly.

“Sorry,” he winces. “Hey, easy. I shouldn’t have tried to touch you without asking first. I’m sorry. I promise I’m not going to hurt you.”

Bucky doesn’t make a move to attack, but he doesn’t lower his weapon either, eyes still fixed on Steve but not nearly as hostile. There’s a crease forming between his brows and this time Steve can’t find anything about his confusion adorable. Because all it serves to remind him is that Bucky doesn’t _understand_. He doesn’t understand that people shouldn’t invade his space, shouldn’t touch him, without his permission. He doesn’t understand that Steve just wants to help him; that he deserves to be helped.

And it goes against everything in him to even _consider_ letting Bucky out of his sight, but he knows that he has to. He has to build trust between them, and that starts with showing Bucky that he isn’t going to lie to him. He said that he wouldn’t hurt Bucky and he hasn’t. He said that he only brought food for Bucky and he’s given it to him. But that’s just to start, now he needs to prove that _he_ trusts Bucky.

“It’s ok,” he’s not sure if he’s trying to convince Bucky or himself. “I should go now, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He pauses, sucking in a sharp breath.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” it comes out more of a question than a statement, but he doesn’t really wait for a response before continuing. “I’ll bring you some things. More food.”

Bucky’s still frowning at him like he doesn’t even understand the words coming out of Steve’s mouth. And Steve hates it, he _hates it so much._ But he just made Bucky a promise, and the only time he’s ever broken a promise was when he made one to himself that he’d get Bucky home safe from war no matter what.

So as much as it kills him, he slowly gets to his feet, wincing at the way Bucky’s stance grows even more defensive, at the way his grip on the knife tightens. He made Bucky a promise and he’s going to honour it, even if it means that he loses him again.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he repeats.

He should back out of the room, Bucky’s on a hair trigger as it is, but he’s never been afraid of Bucky. He wasn’t afraid of Bucky when he was six years old in the playground and getting beaten up by a couple of second graders and he thought Bucky was about to join them instead of helping him, and he wasn’t afraid of Bucky when they faced off on the helicarrier and he let his shield fall into the Potomac. He hasn’t been afraid of Bucky his entire life and he’s not about to start now.

So he turns, exposing his back and walking to the loft door. He throws one last look at Bucky over his shoulder, fighting to keep his smile even at the absolutely _heartbreaking_ amount of confusion on his best friend’s face, before pulling the door shut behind him and walking out of the building.

*

Steve is surprised when he returns the next day to find Bucky still there, sitting atop a pile of crates near the windows overlooking the main work floor. Steve can see him through the grimy glass the moment he enters the building almost faltering in his steps at the sheer amount of relief that he was still there.

After that it’s by no means easy to leave him each day, he’s constantly aware that each time he says goodbye might be the last, but it becomes less of a surprise when he returns and Bucky’s still there.

He visits Bucky every day in the afternoon, staying for a few hours each time until it’s almost dark. He’s already given him the duffel bag filled with supplies, the one that not only had food and clothes but also enough cash in it that Bucky could have easily disappeared by now. But every time he returns Bucky’s up by the window, watching, waiting.

Bucky no longer lets him get close enough to touch, Steve spends the entire time Bucky’s tending to the stab wound in his shoulder (that Steve has no idea how he got, it could have been Hydra, hell it could have been an overzealous mugger, he doesn’t really think he’s going to get an answer anytime soon) sitting in the corner watching him sew it shut, fretting like the mother hen he used to tease Bucky for being whenever he was sick.

He doesn’t push, doesn’t try to get any closer whenever Bucky tenses up. Mostly he just sticks to his side of the room, staying back and allowing Bucky to get as close as _he_ wants to.

Sometimes he talks, whenever Bucky stares inquisitively at him, like he’s trying to figure the blond out. He’s getting good at understanding Bucky, at reading what he means whenever his posture shifts a certain way, learning to judge his moods by how stiffly he holds his spine. Bucky hasn’t spoken a single word, not once in the two weeks Steve’s been coming to see him.

But that’s ok, he doesn’t need Bucky to speak to understand, he says enough just by still being there whenever Steve returns.

So occasionally he’ll fill the silence with his chatter, sometimes sharing memories, tales of them growing up together; a couple of stupid kids tearing through the streets of Brooklyn. Other times, when Bucky doesn’t like being reminded of the past he can’t remember Steve will talk about the team. He tries to stick clear of the missions they’ve completed and he never mentions SHIELD.

He talks about the crazy things the Avengers do outside of fighting, the way that Clint can literally fall asleep anywhere, whether he’s standing, seated or lying down. He talks about teaching Natasha how to knit after she caught him flicking through a magazine on the subject one day, about how sometimes the pair of them sit on Sam’s couch in the evening watching mindless sitcoms and  putting together Poncho’s for penguins after Natasha found a pattern online to help animals that are effected by oil spills.

He’ll talk about Sam, about how now that Steve’s decided they should take a break and stay in DC for a while he’s basically living with him (he knows that Sam saw through the excuses he made about needing to recharge, but true to form he didn’t question him on it). They jog almost every morning and sometimes after he’ll join Sam at the VA before lunch, not necessarily sitting in on the group sessions he hosts but helping out in other ways.

He tries to bring something every time he visits. Mostly more food, actually a lot of food given that his calorie intake is insane and he knows that Bucky’s is the same. He tries to make the food different every time, because everyone he’s ever met in the future has made it their mission to try something new whenever they eat and he wants Bucky to be able to do the same.

But he also brings books, old paperback versions of the pulp novels Bucky used to read like it was going out of style, new science fiction novels, history books, comics, magazines, anything he can get his hands on.

Sometimes Bucky will read them, flipping through the pages at a speed Steve is familiar with. Bucky had always been a fast reader, churning through books quickly enough that when Steve used to ask him how the plot of his latest one was progressing it would be to have Bucky respond that he’d finished it days before and was already half-way through something else.

Other times Bucky will just sit there, perched on what is becoming his favourite spot atop the small stack of crates in the corner. It affords him the best view, close enough to the window that he can survey the entire factory floor but still be able to have eyes on the room they are in at all times. Up there, if he’s not reading, he’ll just stare blankly at nothing.

At first when it happened Steve worried, coming close to approaching Bucky and asking if he was ok. He didn’t in the end, settling for calling out his name. He learnt the hard way not to startle Bucky like that, dodging the knife thrown in his direction before he’d even finished speaking. Now he patiently waits for Bucky to snap out of it on his own, sometimes for hours. But eventually Bucky will blink, posture relaxing slightly as he comes back to himself.

The worst times are when Bucky does more alarming things like sitting stone-faced as he cleans and reassembles his guns. He has to do it one handed now, the metal one had grown steadily less functional over the first three days until it just stopped working all together. It had hung stiffly at his side until Steve brought him a sling, now it’s strapped tightly to his chest underneath his shirts.

Today is one of the afternoons they sit mostly in silence, Bucky had been on his crates when Steve first arrived staring blankly at the wall and not acknowledging Steve at all.

Steve has been sketching the two hours he’s been at the warehouse. He’d taken to bringing his sketchbook pretty early on, content to just sit and draw in silence on the days that Bucky wasn’t interested in listening to him talk.

As has always been the case he mostly sketches Bucky. Today he’s working from memory, he doesn’t like to stare at him when he’s blank like that. He’s got his back to him, hunched over in a way that hasn’t changed since he was 5’4” and a hundred pounds soaking wet, as he works on capturing the shafts of light  that shine through the boarded up windows on the far wall.

In his drawing Bucky is staring serenely out onto the factory floor through the grimy windows, face a combination of the blank stare that is becoming far too familiar and an expression he can remember from memory, something softer, more alive.

He doesn’t notice Bucky’s moved until suddenly he’s behind him. He can’t help the small flinch when he’s hovering close enough that he can feel his breath on the back of his neck. Fighting the urge to turn he keeps right on shading.

When Bucky reaches over to gently touch the paper he doesn’t flinch, he stops moving entirely. It’s the closest he’s been since the incident with the sandwiches. Their still not touching, though there’s less than a few inches between them. Steve can feel the heat radiating off of Bucky’s body, the consistent puffs of air tickling the side of his head.

Bucky’s fingers are tracing gently over the lines of the sketch, and though he doesn’t turn his head, Steve can see the way he’s frowning. He’s not sure how long they sit there, it could be minutes or hours, his eyes are closed and all he’s focusing on is the sound of Bucky’s breathing and the feel of him hovering. So he’s aware the second Bucky moves away from him.

He doesn’t open his eyes right away, but he has to fight down a shiver at the rush of cool air against his back.

He’s not sure what Bucky’s doing, he can’t bring himself to turn around just yet, afraid that whatever small shred of control he’s got over his emotions will shatter. It’s like an ache, sitting hard and cold in the pit of his gut gnawing at him. Because Bucky is _right there_ , he’s been right there for weeks now and Steve isn’t allowed to touch him. He’s not allowed look directly at him half of the time.

He wants to help him, he does, and if Bucky doesn’t want Steve to get too near then that’s _fine,_ it is, Steve’s just happy that he’s allowed to be as close as he is now. Because Bucky is letting him, he could easily have run at any time, but he’s been there every day when Steve has shown up.

But the thing is, and Steve hates himself for even thinking it, he’s a horrible human being, because he wants _more_. He wasn’t lying when he told Natasha that it didn’t matter if he never got his Bucky back, because it doesn’t, after everything he’s been through whoever he is now he deserves a chance at a new life. But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t _want_ his Bucky back.

He’s trying to be strong, to be whatever this version of Bucky needs because he does deserve it. But it’s times like this when he’s not just right there, but close enough to touch, to hold, that for a second Steve finds himself believing at any moment he’s going to throw on of his crooked smirks his way and finally _say something_.

And it’s his own fault, because he knows that Bucky’s not ready, he _knows that_ , but he just keeps getting his hopes up only to have them brutally crushed before his very eyes whenever Bucky inevitably pulls away.

So he just sits there, trying to control his breathing because he’s being absolutely stupid, and selfish and the worst friend in the world if not the universe. He sits there hating himself and listening to the sound of Bucky shuffling around behind him. There are several muffled bangs and something large being knocked to the ground, things being dragged across the floor.

It’s the most noise Bucky’s made in Steve’s presence, which is what makes him finally turn.

It takes him a moment to process it, because he’s not actually sure what he’s seeing is real at first, or whether it’s his mind finally snapping. Because Bucky’s pushed all of the crates and debris to the edges of the room, clearing the entire space so that he has more room.

He’s drawing.

Not like Steve was, he doesn’t have paper or a pencil, but it seems that after watching Steve do it day in and day out he’s trying to do the same.

Bucky’s using the green paint from one of the faded old tins in the corner, scurrying back to dip his flesh hand in it whenever he runs out. It’s not even really an image of anything, nothing he can recognize at least, just jagged shapes and angry slashes.

He’s frozen watching, mesmerised by the way Bucky moves. He’s keeping low to the ground, perfectly balanced even though his metal arm is still strapped to his chest and he’s using his right arm to paint. Crouched the way that he is he looks almost feline, moving in an almost dancelike manner, contorting his body in a way that actually reminded Steve of Natasha slightly.

It is the absolute control he exerts over every movement, the smooth sinuous roll of each muscle. There’s not one instant where he wobbles, each step perfectly placed to open up the floor for him to add to his work.

Some areas are delicate, painstakingly done with the very tips of his fingers as he frowns in concentration, teeth digging into his bottom lip. Others are much angrier, jagged lines and sharp slashes. He uses his whole hand for those, flicking the paint aggressively at the ground before smearing it around, his face contorting in such a twisted expression of pain that it stabs through Steve like a physical blow.

He’s helpless to do anything but sit there and watch. Frozen on the spot for what feels like hours until finally Bucky’s finished, standing in the opposite corner and breathing heavily, his arm hanging down by his side, paint still dripping from his fingers.

It’s everywhere. Starting from three feet away from Steve and spreading across the entire floor to where Bucky stands. He can’t even make out all of it, there’s so much going on. Slowly he moves, carefully walking on the very tips of his toes, fitting them into whatever gaps of floor aren’t still glistening with wet paint.

As he moves he turns, trying to view as much of it as he can whilst still being mindful not to tread on anything. He can feel it like a visceral thing, the way each stab of emotion is played out on the floor. He’s so focused on the strokes of rage on the ground in front of him that he almost backs straight into Bucky. His serum-enhanced situational awareness kicks in at the last minute and he freezes, shoulders hunching up at the feel of Bucky standing behind him.

He hasn’t moved, which Steve will count as nothing short of a miracle, and he can sense more than feel him standing there, hear the soft _drip drip_ of paint falling to the floor. Keeping his movements slow he steps to the side, turning to face Bucky, who is still staring blankly at the floor, his breathing haggard.

For a frozen moment all he can do is wait for Bucky to bolt, this is the closest they’ve been when it has been Steve doing the approaching. When he doesn’t, Steve reaches out his hand, wanting nothing more in this minute than to be able to touch Bucky, to know that he’s real and to give him some measure of reassurance that Steve is too, that it’s going to be ok.

He flinches away when Bucky jerks backwards, turning his attention back to the ground.

It’s just scribbles and shapes, sometimes hard to make out due to it all being the same colour. But he can see the pain and the anguish written there, he can make out each line of fear, each slash of anger, he can read the terror and the hatred, starting over in the corner where Steve first sat and getting heavier and more insistent in the centre of the room.

The closer he gets to where they’re standing the more confused and chaotic it becomes, lines and shapes overlapping each other, whole portions being scrubbed out and gone over again and again until it’s mostly a block of colour with only the smallest amount of pattern discernible.

But then its smooths out, almost two feet in front of them the almost frenzied slashes become calmer, delicate swirls and soft shapes, done with the very tips of his fingers, precisely and with great care. They whirl around and overlap each other forming a gentle frame surrounding a star enclosed in rings.

The second his eyes fall on it his breath stutters, tears welling up in his eyes almost instantly. He jumps with a gasp when suddenly Bucky is _right there_ , not an inch away from him staring at Steve. His expression is unreadable, but not cold or closed off in the way the Winter Soldier’s was.

There’s something so fragile about it, like it could shatter at the smallest of movements, so he stays completely frozen, even as Bucky starts to reach towards him. His eyes slide shut when Bucky’s fingers touch his cheek, leaving a smear of paint against the skin there. It’s a brief touch, barely lasting a second, and Steve holds his breath.

It’s completely silent, like Bucky isn’t breathing either, so he can hear perfectly the moment Bucky speaks.

“Steve.”

His eyes fly open at the word. It’s the first time he’s heard Bucky say his name in over seventy years, spoken softly, not quite a whisper, like he’s both asking and answering a question. Bucky’s expression is neutral once again, only a barely discernible crease to his brows. But his eyes, there’s something there, hidden behind the careful mask the Soldier has worn for years that he recognizes.

Its confusion and fear and a tiny plea for help, and for the first time in forever it doesn’t break something inside of him to see it. He looks lost, yes, and afraid, but it’s different because he’s no longer alone. There’s the smallest glimmer of recognition, and it’s that coupled with that one word, _his name_ , that makes it better because Bucky _knows_ that Steve is here, that Steve isn’t going to leave him ever again.

“Yeah Buck,” he smiles, it’s small and wet, the tears he’d felt before flowing freely now, but probably the only smile that’s felt _real_ since before Bucky fell from that train.

And for the first time in months saying it out loud doesn’t feel like denial. Using his name doesn’t feel like a naïve and misplaced hope for someone who might never come back.

It feels like a promise.

“I’m here.”

 


End file.
